


Shatter

by loversandmadmen



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:36:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandmadmen/pseuds/loversandmadmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of New York left Clint with plenty of injuries he was expecting, and one he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I came in like a (human) wrecking ball, and it really, really hurt.

Crashing through a thick window, rolling through the shards, and landing on his back wasn’t exactly what Clint had in mind when he thought “smooth exit from alien invasion”. He anticipated the earsplitting shattering of heavy glass as he skidded onto the office floor, his head bouncing off of the thin carpet several times before he came to a stop. The pain was excruciating. Little scratches and cuts erupted all over his body from the broken glass. One or two would have been perfectly fine, but so many at a time couldn’t be ignored. More than anything, though, the horrible pain in his head made Clint want to give up. He had suffered concussions before – occupational hazards – but this went far beyond what he was accustomed to. Headaches he could deal with. Feeling like being stabbed with an icepick and crushed by a semi? Not so much. 

Still, though, the others were out there, fighting not only for their lives but for the lives of everyone in the city. No, for everyone on Earth. 

_No pressure_ , thought Clint, and he forced himself to roll onto all fours and carefully try to get up while avoiding as much glass as possible. 

When he attempted to stand, he felt a sharp pain in his left ankle. It didn’t seem to be broken, but certainly badly sprained at the very least. Dizzy from the pain in his head and hoping he could keep from vomiting, Clint made his way to the elevator. He remembered all those times when he was told not to take the elevator in case of emergency, but hey, he had already broken enough safety rules for one day. What was one more? He leaned heavily against the railing in the elevator and got a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls. He was a wreck. Glass stuck in his hair, his uniform was coated in grime and blood, and he saw for the first time just how ill he looked after his time in captivity with Loki. Dark purple circles under his eyes stood out in sharp relief against his pale, undernourished skin, and his lips were light and chapped. Dehydration. He needed to take care of himself, and fast, or he’d drop. 

By the time Clint managed to hobble out to the streets of New York, ready to fight to certain death, he realized that something was odd. There were no flying spacecrafts, no Chitauri or Leviathan, no explosions. It had all stopped. The few people who had remained on the streets were hugging each other, many sobbing with relief, others sobbing with grief and fear. The battle had ended, and they had won. Clint supposed he was happy about this, but he was too dazed to really process a victory. He trudged around the streets, looking for any of his teammates. His communicator had been knocked out of his ear when he had gone through the window, so he was totally unaware of where anyone could be, if anyone had been lost…he walked in the general direction of Stark Tower, trying to push those thoughts out of his head. He stopped after a few blocks, breathing deeply and gingerly stretching out his hurt leg. 

A hand on his shoulder caused him to jump and wheel around, raising his bow instinctively, the last of his arrows pointed at…Natasha. He stumbled onto his bum ankle, letting out a grunt of pain as he did, and Natasha caught him before his leg gave out. She helped lower him onto a pile of concrete rubble and knelt down before him, checking his leg and making a quick overall assessment of his health. Clint was used to this – whenever one of them was hurt in the field, the other would check them out. It was a comfortable, familiar routine, and Clint allowed himself to close his eyes and wait for Natasha to start quizzing him to check for concussion. It wasn’t until Natasha gave him a little shake, her face clouded with concern, that he realized she had been talking to him. She repeated herself, but Clint couldn’t hear it. 

“Sorry,” Clint said, not able to hear his own voice. “I think all those blasts did something to my ears.”

Natasha said something else, and Clint could read her lips well enough to get the gist. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “It’ll wear off. I can just pretend I was at a rock concert.”

Natasha didn’t look any less worried, but she said nothing. She helped to hoist Clint up and began to lead him down the street, taking on as much of his weight as possible. In all honesty, she could probably have thrown Clint over her back and carried him without breaking a sweat, but Clint might have killed her for trying. It was unclear at first where they were heading until Natasha stopped in front of a shawarma restaurant and opened the door. Clint raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 

“Tony,” Natasha mouthed, exaggerating her words. 

Clint nodded, then screwed up his face in pain. His headache had not improved. Natasha helped him over to a table, where he sprawled out in one chair and elevated his injured leg on another. All at once, the heaviness of his exhaustion began to wash over him. The adrenaline of battle and anger wore off and gave way to pure, utter weariness – and hunger. Clint was _starving_. Fortunately, the owners of the restaurant were all too happy to feed Earth’s mightiest heroes on the house, and they bustled about the kitchen to create huge helpings of what turned out to be delicious food. Thor, Steve, Tony, and Bruce had joined them at the table, eating their own meals quietly, reflecting on their own roles in the battle. Natasha sat next to Clint, facing him, observing him. 

The food helped to restore Clint’s rapidly dwindling strength a bit, and he felt slightly more human. He glanced around at everyone else as they ate. There was the handsome super-soldier looking like he could fall asleep at any moment – not that Clint could blame him for that. Steve Rogers had more than proven his title as Captain America that day, and he had to be as mentally exhausted as physically after taking charge. Thor’s usually booming voice was silenced by his consumption of his third shawarma combo meal in as much time as it had taken the others to get through half of their first. Tony, usually a motormouth, looked off into the distance, pensive after his brush with a sacrifice of his life. Clint glanced over at Bruce to see what the powered-down Hulk was feeling, and he was surprised to see that Bruce was actually giggling to himself a bit. Odd. Well, nerves affected everyone differently. 

Natasha ate mechanically, calmly, never really taking her attention from Clint, and he caught her eye and gave the tiniest of winks. Natasha’s almost imperceptible smirk in return told Clint that she would relax her analyzing very slightly, at least until after Clint had been assessed by a doctor. Which, come to think of it…

“Nat,” Clint mumbled through a mouthful of pita. It felt so odd to not really be able to hear himself speak. “I ought to get checked out.”

Natasha nodded and held out her phone, showing Clint her call log. Outgoing included a trusted SHIELD medic. Clint supposed that was for the best – hospitals were sure to be overrun for weeks to come after the disaster. They didn’t need yet one more guy clogging up the system, especially a guy who had, however unconsciously, played such a role in causing it. A wrench of guilt seized Clint’s heart, and he stopped eating for a moment. Natasha’s eyebrow twitched a bit, her one and only tell, but Clint managed to pass his distress off as head pain. Not that it required much acting on his part. 

SHIELD moved fast, even in the worst of times, and this meant that a small team of doctors arrived at the Shawarma Palace by the time everyone was grabbing a last refill of their drinks before thanking the owners profusely and leaving with hastily put-together cards that would allow them free meals for life at the establishment. Clint laughed a little at his as he looked at it. 

“Hey, Natasha, check it out,” he said. “Avengers discount. Wonder if I can get one of these for Starbucks.”

Natasha smiled a little, no doubt relieved to hear Clint sounding more like himself again. Her smile did not quite light her eyes, though, which Clint couldn’t help noticing. He didn’t push it, though, and he allowed Natasha to help him limp out to the mobile SHIELD clinic for a quick assessment before no doubt being transported to a real facility for further poking and prodding. Clint let her do the talking since it wasn’t as though he could hear the medics anyway, and honestly, he was fading fast. He barely had energy to keep his eyes open. At some point, he lost that battle, leaning back against the wall of the medical van while the doctor patched up some cuts he didn’t even realize he had. A gentle hand on his shoulder roused him – Natasha again. 

Clint blinked, looking around, and realized they were preparing to transport him, just as he had expected. Natasha climbed into the van next to him, casually smacking away the hand of a medic who tried to detain her, and she placed her hand on his forearm. They gave each other a little smile before Clint had to close his eyes once more. He wasn’t sure how long they drove or if he actually nodded off at all – the near-silence of the trip made him feel disoriented, and despite his knowledge of Manhattan’s layout, he lost track of where they were driving fairly quickly. The rest of the day continued in a similar blur, a mixture of Clint barely being able to stay awake and the effects of some top-notch painkillers. Natasha stayed by his side all along, occasionally shaking him awake or helping him answer questions for the doctors. 

Clint was vaguely aware of several examinations of his head, as well as what felt like a never-ending series of trivia questions (helpfully typed out on the doctor’s tablet, though his vision was positively swimming by then). By the time the tests ended and Clint was free to get some rest, it was well into the wee small hours of the morning. And yet, Natasha stayed, seeming perfectly awake and capable as always. 

“Nat,” Clint mumbled. “Go get some sleep.”

Nat shook her head, instead electing to pull up a chair next to the hospital bed. Clint shot her a look of disapproval, but it was no good. He couldn’t hold the expression for more than a second before sleep finally took hold.


	2. The sound of...well, not music, that's for sure. The other thing.

It wasn’t as though Clint was any sort of stranger to injury. He had lost count of the number of times he had found himself in an ambulance or a hospital, vaguely aware of being poked and prodded through the painkiller fog. Clint had been through broken bones, surgeries, concussions, even a very brief coma once. But he had never quite been through this. 

The pain in his body was one thing. He had experienced pain his entire life in one form of another, so while it wasn’t exactly pleasant, it was nothing he couldn’t work through. It was the strangeness going on in his mind that was causing him distress. He had not stayed overnight in a hospital in quite a while, and the night dragged as though it would never end. The medications caused an odd mixture of sleepiness and jitters, so as much as Clint would have liked to get some decent sleep, he couldn’t quite manage it after those first few hours. He finally gave in and turned on the TV, finding some reruns of an old sitcom that was familiar enough to possibly nod off to and entertaining enough to keep his mind occupied. Two episodes later, though, sleep had still not found him, and he gave up.

Natasha had refused to leave. When Clint had awakened after his nap, he had discovered her still sitting next to his bed, reading a magazine. Clint doubted a bit that Natasha ever really slept, theorizing that her version of sleep was something more like waiting. She had a new magazine now. 

“Hey,” Clint grunted. Natasha looked at him and smiled. “Good reading?”

Natasha showed him the article she had been perusing – something about eyebrow shaping. Clint snorted. Natasha said something that he didn’t catch. 

“Sorry,” he said.

From her pocket, Natasha unearthed a small pad and pen, scribbling a note: _You’re being released._

“Already? I thought I’d be here at least a couple more days.”

Natasha shook her head and wrote again: _Loki going back. Thought you’d like to see him off._

Clint barely suppressed a little shiver at the sight of Loki’s name, but he knew Natasha was right. Seeing Loki sent back off to the Island of Misfit Norsemen would definitely give him some satisfaction. As nice as it would have been to take Loki out himself or at least see him face justice on Earth, what little Clint knew about Thor suggested that the man would ensure Loki’s punishment would fit the crime. Thor obviously loved his brother – for whatever reason – but he was all about honor and justice. 

Natasha called for a nurse to come in and help detach Clint from various IVs, then handed him a stack of fresh clothing. When and how she managed get street clothes for Clint, he had no idea, but he wasn’t surprised in the slightest that she had found a way. He dressed awkwardly, sore muscles causing his motions to be stilted. Clint allowed Natasha to help him shrug on a jacket, and he felt her smoothing it out a little over the shoulders, then giving his upper arm a little pinch. She gestured to the door with her head, leading Clint out of the hospital and into the sleek SHIELD car that perfectly suited the glamorous spy. 

The drive was quiet, and not just due to Clint’s hearing. Normally, an off-duty car ride with the partners would be filled with inside jokes, ribbing each other, and at least a few terrible puns. When they weren’t working together, Clint and Natasha were as goofy and casual with each other as any best friends would be. Today was different. Clint didn’t know if it was exhaustion, worry, or anger towards the enemy they were about to go see off, but something was different in Natasha today. She did a good job of hiding it, unsurprisingly. Anyone but Clint would never have noticed, but Clint could see that her back was just a little stiffer, her jaw a little more set, her eyes flicking around to search for potential threats a little more often. 

When they arrived, the other Avengers were already gathering. Thor stood with Loki, who wore a muzzle and chains. Clint’s chest tightened in anger as memories came rushing back. That feeling of losing himself, of being erased, threatened to send him into distress as he stared hard at Loki from under his sunglasses. Natasha must have sensed this, because she turned to Clint so he could read her lips. 

“Woof woof,” she said. Clint couldn’t help smiling.

With a little nod to the others, Thor activated some sort of device that beamed them up, and that was it. Thor and Loki were gone, off to force Loki to face judgment, hopefully meaning that Loki would never return. It happened quickly, with no pomp and circumstance, no ritual. Even so, Clint felt the tiniest bit of closure as he looked at the spot where Loki had stood just a moment ago. New York felt just a little better without him there. 

They all said quick goodbyes, shaking hands with each other. No one wanted to linger, and nothing really needed to be said anyway. Everyone knew. Everyone understood. Clint got back into the car with Natasha, and she began to drive aimlessly. Clint just looked out the window for a long time, a little dizzy, but enjoying the feeling of traveling on his own terms. They left the city, heading in a vaguely upstate direction, until Natasha found a scenic overlook and pulled over. Wordlessly, they got out of the car and sat on a bench, looking out over beautiful countryside. After a while, Natasha nudged Clint and raised an eyebrow. 

“Nothin’,” said Clint, feeling his Iowa accent reemerging as it often did when he was tired. “Just…”

Natasha’s eyebrow arched even higher as she turned her entire body to face Clint, leaning in with a look of expectation that she only wore when she knew he needed to talk about something but didn’t want to. Clint sighed and gave in. 

“You ever have your ears boxed?” he asked. Natasha frowned a little, and Clint pantomimed the action of slapping someone’s ears. “When I was a kid, my dad…you think I’m a handful now, you should have seen me as a six-year-old. My dad was a mean bastard, and one time I said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and he whaled on me. Boxed my ears. I couldn’t hear a thing for a while, and my hearing never quite got back to what it should be. I’m just…remembering it. That’s all.”

Natasha put a hand on Clint’s arm, and he placed his hand on top of hers. For someone so deadly in combat, she had tiny, delicate hands, almost comically small under Clint’s. He looked at her. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

Clint shrugged. "It's just what makes a person, I guess. Those things that messed us up as kids, that mess us up as adults...they make us. I can live with that."

Clint knew Natasha understood. She released his arm to grab her notepad again and write a note. This one was lengthy, so she passed the paper over to Clint when she finished. He took his time reading it: 

_You know you’re going to be okay, whatever happens. The main thing is that we got you back._

Clint smiled a little. “I know. It’ll get better. Just gonna take time, that’s all. Until then, I’m just…kind of broken, I guess.”

 _You’re not broken,_ Natasha scribbled firmly. Clint shook his head at her. 

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. "Broken isn't the worst thing I could be. I could be bad."

_Never. And you know I’m going to do anything I can to get this fixed._

Clint took the pen away from Natasha and took her hand. He just wanted a little quiet for a minute, but before that, he wanted to make sure she knew one thing.

"You're sweet. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."


	3. Get back to where you once belonged (easier said than done)

It turned out that there was never going to be an “until then” when it came to Clint’s hearing. It was gone. It was permanently damaged. He might regain a tiny percentage, but it was unlikely. The doctor had the information all written out helpfully for Clint, who stared hard at the paper while Natasha got the verbal rundown. This was all too horribly familiar, like one of those bad dreams that goes forgotten about for years until it makes a sudden appearance. Clint had remained relatively optimistic and patient over the course of almost two weeks. He had taken his painkillers on time, stayed off his feet, and even choked down all the rabbit food Natasha kept bringing by. He had behaved perfectly, and here was his reward: going right back to where he had never wanted to return. 

Clint managed to keep himself calm and cordial with the doctor, shaking her hand with a polite nod before his own hands began to shake. He clenched them into fists inside his jacket pockets, walking much faster than necessary. Natasha let him go, keeping up with him but maintaining a perfect following distance. When Clint reached the car, he leaned against the hood for a long moment, his eyes closed as he tried to steady himself. 

_Get it together. Calm down. Get back._

When Clint finally felt more like himself, he pushed off from the car and turned to see Natasha watching him with that unreadable face of hers. She said nothing, made no gesture, and yet Clint could read every thought. Her slightly cocked head asked whether he really understood what was happening. The subtle narrowing of her eyes suggested that she knew his reaction indicated a link to his past, something she didn’t know about. Her stance told Clint that she was prepared in case he moved violently in any way. That hit him like a ton of bricks, because Natasha had to know that no matter how upset he might be, no matter how loud he might yell, he would never lash out physically against her. She knew him better than that, didn’t she? Clint took a step toward her, reaching an arm out, and saw her body tighten by a fraction. He stopped short. 

_Oh,_ thought Clint, the realization rushing over him like a wave. _The helicarrier._

Clint remembered hitting Natasha, kicking her, ripping out red hairs as he grabbed a handful of red curls to force her head back and expose her throat to his knife. As this memory flooded his brain, Clint shook his head to clear it, then held up his hands to show he meant no harm. Natasha’s body relaxed slightly and she took a step forward. She raised one eyebrow, asking a wordless question.

“I’m okay,” said Clint without hesitating, knowing exactly what she was asking. “I’m…this isn’t the first time I’ve done this.”

Natasha pointed to the part of the doctor’s notes that explained all about his type of injury and his options, but Clint knew all of it already. He had done some research in his downtime, just in case. 

“It’s just too much all at once. I can’t get a grip on it,” Clint went on. “I’ve kept a lid on it since the fight and I’m losing it.”

As he spoke these words, his vision swam and he stepped back to lean heavily against the car. He vaguely felt Natasha clutching at his arm and was partially aware of her opening the car door and placing him inside, but he couldn’t seem to escape his own head. It was like watching a film, seeing everything happening around him rather than really experiencing it. He didn’t know how much time had passed before coming back to himself, but when he finally regained control, one look at Natasha’s face told him it had been a significant amount. 

“What happened?” he asked simply. 

Natasha wrote her response: _Where did you go?_

Clint hesitated, not sure how to answer her. The truth was, he had been fighting that episode back for a week, feeling it lurking just beneath the surface. The emotional upheaval of the day had caused him to lose the battle, lose the control he had worked so hard to maintain. That feeling of being unraveled left him weak and shaky like his blood sugar was low, and he had to summon everything he had left to keep his panic at a minimum. Natasha wrote again. 

_Loki?_

Not wanting to look at the word too long, Clint glanced at it and nodded. He couldn’t meet Natasha’s eyes. She crouched down and slid into the bit of seat that Clint didn’t occupy, pressing up against him. Her warmth felt comforting and familiar. 

“I don’t know what to tackle first,” said Clint. 

_Don’t tackle anything. Chip away at it._

Clint nodded. She was right, of course. This thing was too big for one guy to handle alone, as much as Clint hated to admit it. Natasha bumped Clint’s shoulder gently with her own and they exchanged a brief, tense smile with each other, then she got out and crossed to the driver’s side. She drove more carefully than usual, glancing over at her silent partner from time to time. 

When they reached Clint’s apartment, Natasha followed him upstairs, automatically going over to his coffeemaker to put on a fresh pot. Clint leaned against the wall, staring out the window until Natasha appeared at his elbow with a mug. Clint accepted it, but set it on the windowsill so that his arms were free to wrap around Natasha. He clung to her for a long time, leaning his head against her vibrant hair. Their height difference made it so that their hugs were always perfect, and it was exactly what Clint needed more than anything right now. 

When they finally broke apart, Natasha put a hand to Clint’s cheek and looked at him with the most openly concerned expression she had yet allowed herself to make. Clint knew what she was thinking, although he didn’t want to admit it to himself: she was wondering if he would ever be able to get back to normal after all of this. 

Clint couldn’t stop himself from wondering the same.


End file.
